


Don't Let Me Fall

by withwingsfly (feathertail)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Olympics, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Abuse, Physical Abuse, Sexual Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-12-17 15:31:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21056711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feathertail/pseuds/withwingsfly
Summary: World-class athlete Pietro Maximoff is destined for greatness at the next Olympics, if only he can get his home life sorted out enough that it doesn't affect his work ethic. Fellow world champion Clint Barton might be the solution to everything, but what happens when the stress and pressure of the Olympics brings back some bad habits for both of them?Gift fic for Ruquas for Charity Hawktion 2019





	Don't Let Me Fall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ruquas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruquas/gifts).

> Please please please read the tags! Hopefully I've tagged everything, but if I miss anything, please let me know!
> 
> The emotional, physical, and sexual abuse is between an OMC and Pietro, and not graphically described, but it is mentioned in some detail. They are in a relationship during this. There is no abuse between Clint and Pietro.
> 
> Beta read now!

It had started with the little things: a hand in his hair too tight to be called pleasant, a refusal of kisses, sex that got rougher and rougher, with less and less eye contact, just a hand on the back of his head, shoving him further onto a cock, or deeper into a pillow, until he could hardly breathe. And it was all his fault, at least according to his partner. He moved too much, wasn’t a good enough fuck, wasn’t a good enough boyfriend to deserve kisses, and when he was, they weren’t soft kisses, full of love and adoration, passion for each other, but full of teeth, residual frustration, and  _ hurt _ . 

Pietro would never admit he was unhappy, for fear of being ignored for a week or longer, like he had been after he said he wanted to celebrate  _ Purim _ with his family instead of going on date night. He would never admit that what went on behind closed doors was somehow worse than a kick to the ribs, worse than a black eye, worse than a broken wrist, though he’d received those too. 

Of course, he managed to avoid much of it at training, but g-d forbid he stay out longer with his teammates to go for a drink or hang out, or he’d get nothing but upset at home. He’d be reminded that such frivolity wasn’t part of his strict diet-and-exercise regime, and that he was only hurting himself, couldn’t he see that? He was trying his best to help, but it was pointless if Pietro just kept kicking him to the side and rejecting his advice, ignoring him like this.

It didn’t help that Wanda took his side. There were times when you would think that Pietro was the in-law, not the blood relative. She hung out with him more than she hung out with her own brother, and he in turn took Pietro’s place. He was there when Pietro physically couldn’t be, wiping her tears and making her laugh, letting her get attached. He was invited to birthday parties, movie nights, and eventually just worked his way into the hearts of everyone around him, taking advantage of Pietro’s frequent absences for training and competitions. Everyone seemed to adore him, and began to take his side over Pietro’s. More often than not, when Pietro returned home late from training, it was to the sound of laughter that felt all-too-directed at him, at his failings.

“He’s so out of your league!” and “I don’t know how you got him to notice you!” was said to him more times than “I love you,” and thus Pietro was always the one to blame. He was the one to blame for his silent tears whenever he spent the night alone, his partner in someone else’s bed; he was the one to blame for the breaking down of their relationship, and he was the one to blame when he was finally kicked to the kerb, discarded like a used tissue, frail and fragile.

Cold, wet, and bruised, palms of his hands smarting where they’d hit the ground and torn up the tender skin, he’d trekked to his sister’s, desperate for some sort of comfort. But even as he set his hand on the cold iron of the garden gate, he saw through into the golden glow of her living room. And  _ he _ was there, shoulders shaking and tears rolling down his cheeks as Wanda comforted him with her warm embrace and a steaming mug of homebrewed cocoa. When she reached over to get another packet of tissues, his eyes met Pietro’s, staring coldly through the glass barrier, only breaking eye contact when Wanda resumed her fussing over him. Eyes twinging with a similar smarting pain to his hands, Pietro turned away into the rain, hair plastered to his scalp and water dribbling down the back of his neck.

When he started walking, he had no clue where he was going. He couldn’t go back home, he couldn’t go to Wanda’s. He had nowhere left to go. He wandered aimlessly as the rain pounded down on his head, beating through his skull, ridding his mind of all thoughts, his emotions quelled by overwhelming numbness. He wandered for a long time -- he had no idea how long for, or how far away he’d walked, when he squinted through the still-pelting rain.

Bright lights glared at him as he approached, heralding his arrival at the gym where he trained most days of the week; he only realised how horrendous he looked when the receptionist stared, a hand over her mouth. He was dripping into a large puddle on the welcome mat.

_ “I’m okay, I just got caught in the rain,” _ he wanted to say, but no words came out of his mouth when he opened it. 

He didn’t know how long he stood there, but when he opened his eyes again, it was to a thick towel wrapped around him and large, warm hands manoeuvring him through the corridors of the gym into the cafe, into a chair at a small, round table. When he was greeted by a hot mug of something steaming in front of him, Pietro looked up at whoever it was, and was met by concerned blue eyes.

“You okay, kid?” Clint asked. He was fairly sure he’d seen him before, though obviously not in this context. After a moment, the name came to him: Maximoff. He was some kind of track athlete, right? He saw him from time to time at the gym when their training schedules overlapped, and he lifted at the station right behind the treadmills. He'd never had any complaints about the view. Right now, though, he looked miserable, like a drowned rat; it was no time for compliments.

“C’mon, you’ll catch your death, drink up,” he encouraged, gesturing at the mug cradled between Pietro’s damp, pink fingers. 

Pietro’s fingers twitched, as if he had only just remembered that the mug was there, although it should have been burning his fingers; with trembling hands, he lifted it to his lips. The hot coffee scalded his tongue and the roof of his mouth, but it at least cut through the numbness bubble he seemed to be surrounded by.

“I know you’re supposed to be training outside more, kid, but maybe don’t do it in a rainstorm, huh?” Clint stretched out as he spoke, hands behind his head as he leaned back in his chair. He was the epitome of relaxation, loose-limbed and spread wide; Pietro was still subconsciously trying to make himself as small as possible, his shoulders hunched, his head down, every line of his body tense and ready to make a run for it, to dodge both blows and accusations. But as Clint filled the space between them with small talk, random gossip about the friends he had that Pietro knew nothing about, a commentary on what felt like every dog in the nearby shelter, and, mostly, praise for the coffee in the cafe, Pietro slowly began to loosen up, mentally if not physically. It felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders as Clint babbled on about his own life - there was no pressure to talk about his own.

It didn’t take him long to down the rest of his coffee, and for his hands to stop trembling with emotion (mostly) and just tremble with the cold instead.

As he set the mug down, Clint stood, gesturing for Pietro to follow him.

“C’mon, we both need to shower. You need to warm up, and I’d just finished when reception called me for a hand.” He slapped a gentle, friendly hand on Pietro’s shoulder. “The hot water here’s worth it. I got some stuff you can borrow.” Pietro ambled after him, hugging the thick, fluffy towel around him.

Clint was right, the hot water was definitely worth it. He spent a long time just standing under the showerhead, letting sheets of water flood down his body, beating a pattern on his head and turning his skin pink and warm. Clint lent him shampoo and body wash, both of which smelled good, though he couldn’t pick out the individual scents that made them smell so delightful. 

When he emerged from the shower, another borrowed fluffy towel wrapped around his waist, he found a small stack of clothes on a bench. Clint was nowhere in sight, although his kit bag was still over on another bench. Pietro tugged the sweatpants on, smirking at how they were just a little bit too short on him. In contrast, the worn t-shirt and hoodie swamped him, particularly in the shoulders and biceps.

He stared at himself in the mirror for a long time, the unfamiliar feel and smell of the borrowed clothes somehow strangely comfortable. He had his nose buried in the neck of the hoodie when he started at Clint’s sudden voice at his shoulder.

“Look, I’m not gonna ask you any questions, all I ask is that you come stay the night at my place. You didn’t exactly run for home as soon as you were warm and dry.” 

Pietro opened his mouth to do something, though he didn’t know what -- explain, protest, thank? but Clint held up a hand. 

  
“I haven’t had a friend over for a while and I think my dog needs to socialise. Yeah, I have a dog, come see him,” he offered, grinning, and Pietro knew he was sold. 

So that was how he started pretty much living with Clint Barton, world class archer, in line for the next Olympics like himself, and also how he ended up getting attached to both dog and man, and falling in love with one of them.


End file.
